Disappointment
by the ramblin rose
Summary: Mandrea, AU. Disappointment comes in all shapes and sizes. And, sometimes, it's even too much for a Dixon to handle.
**AN: This is from an anon request on Tumblr.**

 **I own nothing from the Walking Dead.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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She sat at the table with her eyes brimming with tears though none of them had actually made their escape. Merle stood, his back to the kitchen counter, watching her and trying to understand.

"What happened to it?" He asked. His own voice sounded distant and foreign to him—like the few times as a kid he'd tried to speak under water just to see if he could.

Andrea shook her head.

"Nothing happened to it, Merle," she said. "There was no _it_ to begin with."

Merle's stomach turned. Like it was alive and no longer interested in his comfort, it seemed to go on a trip inside his body, running first one place and then another. All at once the wave of absurdity crashed over him.

He had sunk a good chunk of change into almost all the companies that produced condoms. He'd bought them by the box at gas stations, pharmacies, and nearly everywhere in between. He'd carried them in his wallet, in the glove box, and he'd kept them stashed in places where he didn't even imagine he could ever need them. Even now, sometimes, he opened a drawer or a cabinet—his toolbox even—and found the things stuck around here and there. He kept them on hand "just in case" because he never knew when he might need them and he wanted to be prepared.

And more than one trip to a doctor's office to get shit cleared up that required some assistance to keep him from being the guilty party that passed it off to someone else had proved that he still wasn't _always_ prepared. He still wasn't as careful as he should've been.

He'd spent more than one day stewing over a few beers and worrying about what to do. Some woman or another had called him—had stopped by his work—telling him her period was late. He knew more than he thought a man ought to know about the regularities and irregularities of some women. He'd waited, just as they did, to see if the whole thing would sort itself out or if he'd be up the creek without a paddle—doomed to be some kid's old man.

But he'd always been _lucky_. That's how he'd thought of it at least. The worry had always been for nothing and every bout of panic had been resolved.

But now he realized how really absurd the whole damn amount of worry had been.

He'd been sitting on the couch—drinking a beer but without the worry that time—when Andrea had come into the living room and hovered around him long enough that he'd started to grow uncomfortable. It was clear that there was something on her mind. It was evident that she wanted to talk to him. She just needed a nudge to get it going. So he'd given her the nudge. He'd asked her what the hell was her problem.

And she'd handed him the plastic stick. Just two weeks ago. He couldn't forget it yet—and he doubted he ever would.

"You pissed on this?" He asked.

"Merle!" It was the only response she gave him. He'd laughed at her.

"I don't want'cha damn piss all over my hand," he said.

"It's clean," she said. "Besides—a little pee isn't going to be the worst thing that's ever happened to you. Just look at it."

Merle did look at it. His heart was already pounding in his chest, though. He didn't have to look at it. He didn't have to read the little window that declared her _pregnant_ —the easiest test to read chosen for his benefit—because he knew that she never showed them to him before. He saw them, dropped in the trash can by the bathroom sink, and sometimes he looked at them himself, but she never went out of her way to bring them to him. He didn't have to look at it at all—because he already knew what it meant.

And it stirred up a feeling in him that he couldn't explain if he tried. He'd been caught somewhere between wanting to vomit from the sheer cold fear that it struck in him—fear that he could never be anything worth having as a father—and a fluttering excitement that he hadn't felt since he'd tried to hide his shaking hands and thanked her quietly for not pointing them out when he'd said "I do."

She'd been in his lap before he could find any words. And she'd accepted the kiss he gave her as all the words he had to offer at the moment.

They'd decided to do this—and they were going to do it. Together.

But now? Everything—every worry from his past seemed absurd. Every dime spent on condoms with more concern over avoiding pregnancy than disease seemed absurd.

They wanted this. And he couldn't even do this right.

Sitting in the kitchen, right now, her head on her hand, Andrea looked like she was the most disappointed any soul could be. Merle swallowed back his own disappointment and the feeling of guilt in his gut.

"What you mean?" He asked. "They weren't nothin'. There was somethin'..." Andrea shook her head. From somewhere inside of him, and without any explanation as to where it had come from or why it had shown its head, anger started to boil around in Merle's stomach where the disappointment and guilt had been. He banged his hand on the counter hard enough that it stung. "There was somethin'!" He declared. "I seen it myself! Read it myself!"

Andrea looked at him wide-eyed and Merle dropped his eyes to the floor in apology. He wasn't mad at her. He wasn't accusing her of anything. All she'd done was go to the doctor like she was supposed to do and let them do whatever it was they were going to do to tell them when their kid would be born. She hadn't been responsible for misplacing the kid between here and there—the kid that they'd talked about over breakfast. The kid that was gone now.

The kid that she was saying had never really been there, even though Merle had been practically taking it to baseball practice in his mind for two weeks.

She seemed to sense that it didn't have anything to do with her.

"It was a false positive, Merle," Andrea said. "They happen. Maybe it was—it could've been a lot of things." She stopped and sucked in a breath. Merle looked at her. She was holding it back, but she was on the verge of tears. If it happened—if it broke through—he was going to have to leave the house. He couldn't stay for that. Not right now. "It doesn't matter why," Andrea said. "All that matters is—there isn't a baby."

He couldn't stay for that either. And he knew that she knew him well enough to know that. So he didn't feel the need to explain himself when he hummed at her, nodded, and grabbed his truck keys off the counter. He didn't feel the need to explain himself, either, when he walked out the front door and down the porch steps, hearing the door slam shut behind him and knowing that she was still there, sitting at the table, dealing in her own way with the baby that they'd talked about breakfast—the one that just wasn't even there.

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Over the legal limit had accidentally become Merle's most common way to drive. Every time he did it, he swore he wouldn't do it again. Lately he'd been better about it—calling Andrea to pick him up whenever he'd slipped and had too much—but this time he hadn't had the heart to call her. She was, more than likely, asleep and figuring that he'd stay out all night. And if she'd finally gotten to sleep? He didn't want to wake her up to remind her that she'd married a loser who, on top of the fact he couldn't give her a kid, couldn't control his drinking habits.

By some stretch of luck, though, Merle made it home. He parked his truck, mounted the porch steps, and unlocked the door. Everything was silent in the house, but Andrea had left the hood light on the stove on for him. He switched it off, bathed the house in darkness, and stumbled down the hallway to the bedroom. She was asleep and he didn't wake her. He left the bedroom and backtracked. He let himself into the little room and switched on the light.

The room was empty except for three or four boxes in the corner. One of them was open where Andrea had gone rifling through it in search of something. There was a black hefty bag, too, that he knew held her winter clothes for when she'd need them. The items there were the only things left that she hadn't unpacked yet.

When they'd bought the house some months before, everyone had asked why they needed to jump right into a two bedroom when they could get something smaller and cheaper just to get going. They'd said they wanted a guest room and most everyone had accepted it, despite the fact they rarely had anyone crashing at their house. What they hadn't told people was that the guest they were hoping for was one that they imagined would weigh somewhere between six and eight pounds when it got there. And it was a guest they were hoping would stay at least seventeen or eighteen years.

They hadn't bought the furniture yet. They'd talked about it over breakfast, though. They were waiting until the guest announced its presence to make the purchases. Then they'd go and buy everything the kid would need. Merle didn't want his kid to have everything it wanted—after all he wasn't going to spoil the damn thing into being a hellion—but he wanted his kid to have everything it _needed_.

Except there wasn't a kid. And there might not ever be one. And it was, more than likely, Merle's fault.

He hadn't been the best kind of person that he could be. And probably all those somewhat-prayers he'd sent up that there wouldn't be kids before were biting him in the ass. Maybe God or whoever was in charge of handing out kids had just decided he didn't get one. He didn't deserve it. And Andrea was going to suffer for it too.

Switching off the light, Merle stepped out of the little room and closed the door. He went back to the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed. He meant to take his shoes off. He meant to take his pants off. He meant to simply strip down, get into bed, and pass out—but that wasn't what happened.

What he never meant to do was wake Andrea.

But her face was pressed against his back before he even really realized that she was awake. He felt the soft touch of her lips on his shoulders—dotting back and forth—and he shook his head. He wanted to tell her to go back to sleep. He wanted to tell her to leave him alone. But he couldn't say anything.

At least, he couldn't say any of that.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so—damn sorry."

She stopped kissing him. She was, no doubt, as shocked to hear the words as he was, even though he'd been the one that had said them. But once he said them, he couldn't stop saying them. They poured out of him, over and over, along with the tears that he wanted to stop more than anything else.

But he had no control over any of it.

"I'm so damn sorry. My fault. Ain't gonna happen—and it's all my damn fault..." He stammered, repeating some variation of the words over and over.

Andrea crawled over him—around him—almost like a cat and somehow managed to squirm her way into his lap. She didn't complain about the tears that he was ashamed of. Instead, she just kissed his jaw and rested her head against his shoulder. She laughed quietly to herself—a sound that seemed so out of place at the moment.

"It's only been seven months," Andrea said, trailing her fingers over Merle's skin. "Just seven. Plenty of—plenty of people try longer than that. A lot longer."

"And plenty don't try," Merle said.

Andrea hummed.

"So we try," Andrea said with a sigh. "And—we keep trying. Merle? It's only been seven months—I tried at least that long to get you to say you loved me."

And whatever she was doing—even if she wasn't doing anything—it seemed to be working. The storm that felt like it had been raging inside of him all evening was calming. It was dying down. It wasn't stirring him up as much. He moved enough to wrap his arms around her, to guarantee that she wouldn't fall from her somewhat precarious perch, and he sighed at the feeling of her skin against his and the smell of her soap and shampoo—a smell that reminded him of bed and of sleep and of _calm_.

"You want it so damn bad," he said.

" _We_ want it so damn bad," she corrected. Merle hummed in response. "And—it's going to happen. At least, now? We know how _happy_ we'll be when it does happen."

"What if it don't happen?" Merle asked. "An' it's my fault?"

Andrea pulled away from him, backing her body up enough to look at him—not that either of them could see too much in the room. He held her so that she wouldn't slip off his legs.

"And what if it doesn't happen and it's mine?" She asked.

He didn't respond. He couldn't imagine it being her fault if they weren't to have kids together—but then if it was? It wouldn't matter. It wouldn't be something she was actively doing. It wouldn't be something she could control any more than he could control the feelings that had just come out of him—feelings she'd never seen from him before. She seemed to accept his silence as an answer.

"It won't matter to me, either," she said. "We've got time. And—if it doesn't happen? After a while? I'm sure there's a kid somewhere who wouldn't _hate_ it if we took them home..."

"We're better'n nothin'," Merle commented.

Andrea laughed quietly.

"Oh, we're a lot better than nothing," she responded. "And—getting better every day."

Merle hummed.

"Guess we could talk about it," he said. "Keep tryin' too."

She hummed and nodded at him. Even though he could barely see her, he could tell that she was smiling. She ran her fingers through his hair and scratched at his scalp.

"The trying isn't that bad, after all," she pointed out. "I think—even if it doesn't happen? We should keep trying. Just—for the practice."

Merle chuckled to himself. He pulled her back against him and she came willing enough, meeting her lips with his in the darkness.

"Practice makes perfect," he said.

"And maybe Dixons," she added with a snicker.


End file.
